


Chips and Cracks

by superhusbands



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Family, Flashbacks, M/M, bipolar, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhusbands/pseuds/superhusbands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 4x12.</p><p>In which Mickey wants to help Ian deal with everything that life throws at him, and Ian's still trying to figure out just what's exactly going on in his head, let alone in anyone else's. It's not going to be easy, and there's going to be struggle, but they've gotten through so much shit together... why should now be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter in what I hope is going to be a multi-chapter fic. I hope to update at least every couple days, maybe more often than that if the motivation strikes, and really hope that you guys like the way I've interpreted the characters. Chapter's are going to alternate between POV's, though I may stick to Mickey's primarily. 
> 
> That being said, hope you enjoy it!

It was too fucking sunny. 

That was the first thought that popped into Mickey Milkovich's mind when he woke up that next morning to the sun streaming in through the windows, and some damn birds chirping outside. He should have closed the window the night before but it was hot as hell in their room and he didn't want Ian to sweat to death. His stomach did a little flip when he realized he'd referred to it as their room, even in his head, but he pushed it down and rolled over to focus on the moment at hand. Or more specifically, the boy lying beside him... who had been doing so for nearly three days now. It seemed like no matter what he did, or no matter what he said, Ian just wouldn't budge. So far he'd been giving him space, backing off when he said he wanted to be alone, but enough was enough. How was he supposed to help him when he wouldn't let him?

'Ian? Come on...' He nudged his shoulder, trying not to frown as he pulled the blankets back away from his face. 'Sun's up, and all that good shit.' He gave him another nudge, his hand coming up to run through Ian's hair. He had taken to doing that lately, when he thought Ian was asleep, or when no one else was around. He didn't know if it helped, or if it made things better or worse but it kept him from feeling completely and utterly useless. But again, Ian wasn't budging. He barely looked at him, just mumbled that he wanted to be left alone, and rolled over. Mickey pulled back a bit, pinching the bridge of his nose, grabbing a beer off of the table and finishing it off before laying down beside him. He didn't know what to do anymore. Ian's entire fucking family had dropped by one by one, each trying to do something, or anything, to get him out of bed to no avail. And if he had to hear someone call him the new Monica one more fucking time, he was going to snap. Ian was going through a rough patch, no shit, but they could help him get through it. He was family, and family looked out for family. They didn't ship 'em off because things were getting too hard.

'Please.' He was surprised to hear the words come out of his own mouth, because he sure as hell hadn't planned on saying them, but they spilled out before he could stop them. He didn't beg. If anything, he made bitches beg for him. For mercy, for their lives, for some good drugs-- he was a hood kid through and through, tough as nails. But when it came to Ian... he had an achilles heel, and he did things, and felt things, he'd never thought he was capable of. His heart sunk when Ian rolled over again, tuning out the world, before sighing and wrapping his arms around him. 'C'mon... help me out here. You don't have to go out, but you gotta shower. You stink, man.' It was by some miracle that Ian actually allowed Mickey to help him up, the first triumph in a sea of failures, and he got him to the bathroom without much trouble. He caught Mandy watching out of the corner of his eye, curled up on the couch flipping through a magazine, but he just shook his head. He knew she'd get it, that they weren't out of the woods yet. She cared about him just as much as he did. 

He got him into the bathroom and into the shower before he quickly realized that though Ian might have gotten up, he wasn't about to be proactive. He reached down and twisted the knob, cursing when the water came out cold. 'Fucking Kenyatta' He grumbled under his breath, shaking his head as he grabbed a bar of soap. 'I wouldn't do this for just any bitch, hope you know that.' He grumbled half heartedly, helping him get clean as he spoke. If he kept things casual, kept up with his usual demeanor, it felt more normal. Like things weren't on the verge of falling apart. 'Easier said than done too, jesus, when'd you get so damn tall?' He had to stretch in order to run the shampoo through Ian's hair, massaging it with his fingers, shaking his head. When he'd pictured their first shower together, he'd pictured it very differently. He'd pictured his hands on Ian's body, running over the lines of his hips, teasing his cock, before Ian shoved him up against the shower wall and reminded him how much he fucking loved everything about being with him. 

He shut the water off and grabbed a towel, handing it to him and heading out of the bathroom to grab a pair of boxers and a shirt. He wasn't really paying attention, moving on auto-pilot, but he looked up when someone touched his arm.

'Your orange haired boy. Is he better now?'

He looked at Svetlana and shook his head, moving to push past her and go to his room. She got in his way though, and he shoved her arm off as he shot her a look. 'No, now either tell me what the fuck you want, or get outta my way?' 

She shot him a look of disdain. 'You are much nicer when he is happy, yes? Is it not American custom to ask questions?' He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he moved past her.

'Well thanks for your fucking concern. He's fine, he's just having an off day. Or week. Whatever. Stop asking so many fucking questions, Jesus. Don't you have a baby to feed or something?' He looked up when she grabbed his arm, not liking the look that she was giving him. It was full of pity, or maybe sympathy, but either way? He didn't want it. He avoided he gaze and grabbed some clothes out of his drawers, ignoring whatever it was that she said in Russian, before heading back to the bathroom. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to see Ian in the same position where he'd found him. He took the towel from him and helped him dry off before getting him dressed, which wasn't an easy feat, and getting him back to bed. 

The sun was still up. It wasn't even 3 in the afternoon yet here they were, back in bed, with no plans to get up and get going. Everything he suggested, every idea he tossed out, was met with no response. He kept telling himself that he had to learn to be patient, that this was Ian, but it seemed like no matter what he did, it was never enough. Ian had barricaded himself between some pretty thick walls, heavily guarded ones, and it was going to take more than a few chips to get them to come crumbling down.


	2. Restless

It was funny how minutes slipped into hours, and hours into days, when you found yourself completely unable to move. Sure, your body worked-- physically? You could get up and move around, you could do some jumping jacks, you could do whatever you want. But sometimes there was a disconnect between the mental and physical, and that disconnect made even the simplest thing, like moving, seem like the least possible thing in the world. This was one of those times. Ian knew he could easily get up and go for a run with Fiona, or get drinks with Mickey, but when it came to actually doing it? It was like he was frozen in place, unable to move, barely able to breathe, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was an overwhelming feeling, a total lack of control, and he hated feeling the way that he did. He didn't want to be in bed all day. He didn't want to be incapable of being himself. But at the end of the day, no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't force himself to do it. 

He felt the bed dip beside him but he kept his gaze trained on the window, eyes seeking out the cracks in the wood as he counted them. 14 on the right side, 12 on the left side. There was a dent on the left too, probably from someone hitting their head up against it. He could hear someone talking to him, he was pretty sure that it was Debbie, but he shut his eyes and tried to block it out. They didn't understand. He could barely understand, so he didn't expect anyone else to. They'd all been so hard on Monica when she'd gotten all crazy on them, called her selfish and a bitch, but they didn't get it. They didn't get how hard it was to breathe, to talk, to be alive, when all you could think about was how different you felt. He didn't feel like himself, he didn't feel like anything. It was like he was coasting down a river and the edge was coming, but he just didn't care enough to swim out of the way. Everything felt foggy, like it wasn't real, and he didn't want to talk about it. No one would get him, get him, so why try? Eventually they'd leave, they always did, and it got a fraction of an inch easier. 

At some point the sun went down and he couldn't count the cracks anymore, so he rolled over and closed his eyes. He wished that sleep would come, that it would offer a reprieve from everything going on in his head, but it never did. No matter how hard he wished, or mentally begged, he was never rewarded with the relief that came with a sound night of sleep. It felt like he'd been awake for days, even weeks, and it was slowly driving him mad. He had his eyes closed, willing the sleep to come, when he felt the bed dip again. He didn't open them, tensing up when he felt someone's hand running through his hair. He relaxed slightly when he realized it was Mickey, that he must have just gotten home from work-- he smelled like cigarettes, beer, and cheap perfume. He always did when he came back from the room upstairs the Alibi. 

'Hey... you feelin' any better today? We can order a pizza, watch some shitty action movie... whatever you want.'

He wished he could offer up a smile, thank him for trying, but he didn't have the energy. He couldn't pretend to be interested in a pizza, or in spending time with him. He wished he could, but he didn't. 'Leave me alone.' He mumbled quietly, rolling away from him, his eyes remaining open as they blurred with tears. He wished that he could find the words to explain but the more he couldn't, the more irritated and frustrated he got. He just wanted all of them to leave him alone. It was better when he was alone, when he didn't have to struggle and think and try to be something that he couldn't. 

But Mickey never left. He always lingered nearby, whether it be on the other side of the bed, or in the doorway. He'd heard people coming and going, Mandy telling him to give him space, Svetlana yelling at him about the baby and him cursing back, and even Kev had been over one day, but Mickey never left. Or if he did, it didn't seem like he did. But the hours and days passed by so quickly that even if he did, Ian probably wouldn't have noticed. 

He heard a sigh as the bed dipped again, and he closed his eyes briefly as a tear trickled down his cheek. He didn't want to be like this, didn't want to push Mickey away at every turn, but it seemed like there wasn't anything else he could do. He couldn't control the way he felt, the way things were going, and it seemed like no matter how hard he tried... he couldn't make it go away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!
> 
> Sorry for the lack of update yesterday, I ended up going to see Captain America and by the time I got home, was too tired to write anything. Here's the next chapter, and there isn't much Ian but he will be back full force in the next one.

After a few more days of Ian remaining unresponsive, Mickey quickly realized that maybe he hadn't though this through completely. He'd had every expectation to skiv off work, take care of him, and help him as best he could. But money was running low, and Svetlana's bitching was at a high, and at some point he wasn't going to have much of a choice but to go back. He was standing in front of the mirror, rubbing his palm over some stubble that appeared on his face when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He pulled a switchblade out of his back pocket, never one to be too careful, but relaxed his grip when he realized it was just his wife. 'What do you want?' He snapped, turning his gaze back to the mirror.

'You go to work." She said simply, shoving his jacket at him. She had the baby balancing on her hip, and some towels in the other. 'Make money, feed baby, pay bills.'

'Why don't you go to work?' He snapped back, irritated, as he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. 'Not today. Mandy's workin', and his sister's got some court thing.' As much as he wanted to do everything he could for Ian, he'd also realized that he needed help, so he'd gone to the only person in Ian's family who didn't completely piss him off. Fiona was ballsy, and pretty annoying, but she cared about Ian just as much as he did. It made it easier to tolerate her. 'I'm staying here.'

'I have baby." Svetlana argued back, shoving the jacket towards him again as she shot him a look that could freeze over hell itself. 'You go work. I watch ginger boy. Just like second baby.' 

Mickey shot her a look, rolling his eyes, as he took the jacket. He was about to shoot back at her when he realized that she was serious, that she was offering to watch Ian from him, as he narrowed his eyes. 'The fuck would you do that for?'

'You make money, we eat.' Svetlana pointed out, shooting him a wry look. 'You no work? No money, no eat, unhappy baby. Win for all, this plan, yes?' 

He considered it for a moment and then nodded his head rigidly, not sure how he really felt about it but knowing that he had no other choice. He shrugged his jacket on and went into the bedroom, rummaging through the drawers until he found a gun. He made sure it was loaded before shoving it down the back of his jeans, eyes flitting over towards the bed. Ian was barricaded under the sheets, like a four inch thick protection bubble, and he choked back a sigh as he shook his head. He just wanted to see him smile again, hear him laugh, but it'd been so long he was starting to forget what that even sounded like. 'Alright, Gallagher, the wife's gonna hang around today, I've gotta go in to work.' He sat down on the edge of the bed, aware that Svetlana was lingering in the doorway, as he brought his hand up to hesitantly rest against his cheek. He was always wary that Ian would pull away when he touched him, so he made slow moves, not wanting to push him. 'I've got this stupid shit your sister made me get, one of those mobiles, so if you need me...or whatever, you can ring it.' He shrugged, slightly uncomfortable, as he brought his hand up to run through his hair. He didn't know what else to say, especially when Ian was so unresponsive, but he gave his hair a little ruffle before getting up. He nodded in Svetlana's direction, the closest thing to a thank you that a Milkovich would ever give, before heading out the door and down to the Alibi room. 

The bar was pretty empty, though fair enough it was still early, and he gave Kev a curt nod as he let himself in and went straight up the stairs. The bar patrons might have been cool with him being gay, but he really wasn't in the mood for socializing. Kev had heard from V, who'd heard from Fiona, about the situation with Ian so he'd been pretty good at putting up with Mickey putting in less and less hours at the club. Business was doing good upstairs, no hassle, no mess, and Mickey almost wished one of the guys would try to stiff the girls so he'd have an excuse to shoot someone... or at least bust a kneecap or two. It was like he was itching to do something, break something, and it wasn't just because it'd been awhile. Growing up in his house, you learned to take your aggression out on other people, rather than dwelling or thinking about shit. Gallaghers? They were the talking sort. They talked about everything. He was much happier getting drunk as hell, swinging around a bat, and moving on. Was it healthy? Nah, probably not, but he didn't really care. 

He went downstairs after an hour or two, bored out of his skull, and commandeered a bottle of JD from out behind the bar. Kev just looked at him but he waved it off, telling him to take it out of his pay, as he took the lid off and took a long swig. He felt fucking exhausted, straight to the bone, and he knew it was the kind of tired that no amount of sleep was going to fix. It was part defeat, part helplessness, and there was nothing he hated feeling more. A couple more drinks though? Then it wouldn't feel so bad. By noon he was drunk, and then by mid-afternoon he was sober again, getting everything taken care of upstairs before heading back down to leave. He was halfway to the door when he noticed someone slumped at the bar, face resting against the counter top, and he snorted and shook his head. Of course Frank Gallagher had managed to make his way to the bar. He'd heard rumours that he'd been dying, or some shit like that, but he looked pretty fine and dandy from where he was sitting. He didn't stick around long enough to find out though, he had his own Gallagher waiting at home.


	4. Chapter 4

Fiona Gallagher was a lot of things, but patient? That had never been one of them. She liked knowing how things were going to go, where the tables were turning, and unexpected twists and turns, though she was used to them, weren’t appreciated. However, it seemed like lately her life was determined to be one quick twist and turn after another, and she was starting to get whiplash. 

She shook her hair out as she walked in through the front door, tossing her jacket down on the back of the couch as she spotted Liam, smiling as she walked up to him and scooped him up. She’d missed all of the kids when she’d been away, wishing she could be there with them, and every moment she had with them now she wouldn’t be taking for granted or wasting. She balanced him against her hip, heading into the kitchen to see if anyone had had the sense to take anything out for dinner. She smiled when she saw that someone had taken out some meat, shaking her head as she leaned down to turn the oven on. She wasn’t sure what they’d have to go with it, but they’d figure something out. 

Her phone chirped in her pocket and she phished it out, frowning when she saw the name flashing across her screen. Milkovich. She sighed and picked up the phone, preparing for the worst but hoping for the best. As a Gallagher, that was practically written into their family crest. “Mickey.”

"Hey." His voice sounded curt, a little detached, and she frowned as she straightened up. "Is fir—Ian, is he at your place?"

She stiffened at the question, feeling her throat catch in her breath, as she shook her head. “Hold on.” She put the phone in her pocket and put Liam down in the play pen, taking the stairs two at a time. She started with the boys room, and then Debbie’s, and then her own, her blood going cold when all of the rooms turned up empty. She didn’t know where Ian was, but it wasn’t at their house. She pulled the phone back out and chewed on her bottom lip before speaking, eyes narrowed in worry. “He’s not here. Weren’t you supposed to be watching him?”

"No shit." The other boy snapped back, a hint of what she assumed was worry audible in his voice. "I went to the fucking store and when I came back, he was gone. Figured you swooped in and tried to ship him out."

She gritted her teeth, shaking her head. “He needs help, Mickey. This isn’t something you can ignore and hope it goes away. He needs medication. He needs help, and we might not be able to give it.”

"Don’t fucking tell me what I can or can’t do." She winced at the tone, how his voice had gotten gruffer, more defensive, as she ran her fingers through her hair. She wasn’t trying to discredit him, or make him feel useless… she’d just been through this before, she knew how it worked. How many times had she sat beside Monica’s bed, trying to convince her to get up and get moving, before she’d realized it wasn’t enough? How many times had she watched her father, before he picked up the bottle and never quit, beg her mother to sit up and live again. The disease was brutal, and it was crippling, and it was bigger than all of them. She wished more than anything that love, and attention, would make everything better… but she’d lived this before, she knew the harsh realities better than Mickey could understand without having lived it. 

"I know you don’t want to hear it, but he needs help. He needs help, and the longer we wait, the worse it’s going to get." She frowned, pursing her lips, as she sighed. "We’ve seen this before, he’s—"

"If I hear you say the word Monica I swear to god—" He broke off, and she heard a smash— he’d probably knocked something over, or hit something, she wasn’t sure what. "This is Ian. He’s not your fucking mother. It’s different." She had a feeling that it wasn’t different, but arguing with him got them nowhere. Mickey Milkovich was nothing if not stubborn. "Fucking forget it, I’ll find him myself." She opened her mouth to speak but was met with a dial tone. He’d hung up.

"Shit." She mumbled under her breath, shaking her head, as she shut the phone and leaned up against the counter. It had been over a week since Ian had crashed, and with Monica they could sometimes last a week and a half, two weeks, once even three, before she’d snapped back into overdrive. She pulled out her phone and sent off a quick text to Lip, not wanting to stress anyone else out, to see if he’d seen him. The answer was no, though she wasn’t surprised, and she sent back a quick reply before texting Mickey.

'check work, check alibi. I'll check hospitals after wrk.'


	5. Chapter 5

Worrying wasn't something that Mickey Milkovich was good at. Sure, when they'd been kids, he'd taken it upon himself to watch out for Mandy. She was the youngest, and the only girl, and his batshit brothers certainly weren't going to do it. He'd gotten his first scar, on his shoulder about six inches long, in a knife fight with Iggy. He was just trying to toughen him up, he'd argued, while Mickey struggled not to cry out as Tony stitched him back up. He'd been 7, maybe 8, and too fucking young for pain to be the norm. He wanted shit to be different for Mandy, wanted to make sure she had a good life and didn't have to get hurt as often as they did. No one fucked with the Milkovichs. But try as he might, he wasn't able to stop everyone from fucking with her. He couldn't stop Steve Reyes from breaking her heart, or Liam Toroni from spreading rumors around school that she had crabs. Sure, he got them back with a baseball bat to the knees, but the damage was done. Try as he wanted to, he couldn't stop all the bad shit from happening, something that seemed to be a reoccurring theme in his life as of late.

It was almost dark and he still hadn't tracked Ian down, and as much as he didn't want to, he was starting to worry. Fiona had him freaked the fuck out, going on about calling hospitals and shelters, and he was refusing to even think about what that would mean if he was there. Or worse, if he wasn't. Finding him there would be shitty, it would piss him off beyond all comprehension, but not knowing where he was seemed almost as mad. He was sitting down on the front steps of their house, chain smoking his way through his last pack of ciagrettes, as he tried to think of anywhere and everywhere Ian could have gone. He'd checked the roofs where they used to shoot things and Ian practiced his ROTC shit, the dugouts where they'd gone to fuck, the Kash & Grab, the alley outside, everywhere that he could have gone to for some sort of familiarity. In a last ditch effort he'd even checked by the L tracks, and out behind his house. He was nowhere to be found, and it was starting to piss him off. Why couldn't he have just left a fucking note? Would have taken him five fucking seconds, and then they all wouldn't be worried out of their damn minds. 

Mickey finished off his cigarette before rising to his feet, running his hand over his face before chucking the empty pack into the garbage and heading out again. He could only think of one other place that Ian could have gone, and he didn't know why the fuck he'd be there. He'd been down for over a week now, nearly two, and the last place he figured he'd find him would have been at the club. But he was running out of ideas, shooting blanks, and he couldn't sit around and do nothing anymore. He checked his back pocket to make sure the gun was there, not one to go anywhere unprotected, before heading into the club and scanning the room. It was happy hour, the club was packed with people, but he knew he'd be able to spot Ian from a mile away. He locked eyes with a few people, rolling his eyes and shoving off some twink who tried to make a pass at him. 

"Hey. You haven't been in here for awhile."

He looked up when he heard someone speak, about ready to tell them off when he spotted one of the bartenders. Robbie? Richie? Ian had introduced them a few weeks back, said he was one of the good guys and that he should be nice. He'd resisted the urge to roll his eyes and had actually been civil, or as civil as a Milkovich can get without punching someone, and didn't hate him as much as he hated every other person in that shitthole. "Hey." He said dismissively, his eyes still roaming the club. "Been busy."

"Well if you're looking for Curtis..." Robbie looked nervous, way too occupied in picking at his nails, and it piqued Mickey's interest. He looked up and shot him a look, a Milkovich original that screamed 'you better tell me what the fuck is going on before I tear your teeth out one by one'.

"Is he here?" His voice sounded more panicked than he'd planned on it being and he schooled his features as he crossed his arms over his chest, hands turned so that his tattoos were visible. FUCK-U-UP. He'd had them done when he was 10, and stupid, and it had hurt like hell but he'd been too stoned to give a shit. He'd thought it was funny, and Tony had clapped him on the shoulder and said that it'd help his rep. He was short and scrawny back then, he'd needed all the help he could get. 

'He's in the back room, but you can't__"

Mickey hadn't stuck around to here the rest of the explanation, shoving past him as he tried to remember exactly where the backroom even was. He took a deep breath, trying to remain calm, before setting out to find it. 20 minutes and two shots later and he finally found it, blocked off by some burly guy with an earpiece. Who the fuck did he think he worked for, the President? Mickey wasn't impressed, and it didn't make him look tough. He was geared up for a fight, knuckles cracked, when the guy just stepped out of his way. He blinked, figuring he'd been seen enough with Ian that it wasn't crazy to assume he'd be welcome back there. He shrugged, letting his hands fall down to his sides as he looked around. There were people everywhere. Dancers half naked, grinding up on VIP customers, drugs out on the table for anyone to take as they pleased. It was a tweaker's sanctuary, a fucking paradise, and he hated everything about it. It was loud, and it was chaotic, and he just wanted to find Ian and get the fuck home.

He had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave it on a cliffhanger, but I couldn't resist!


	6. Chapter 6

When Mickey was almost 13, he'd gotten his first concussion. Well, the first one that had landed him in the hospital. He'd been messing around with Tony and they went after the Costellos's with just a bat and their raging tempers, but no one had ever told him that you never bring just a bat to a knife fight. He'd taken a knife between the ribs and had hit his head up against the side of a brick wall, seeing stars before everything had faded to black. He'd woken up two days later on the couch in the living room with Mandy saying he'd blacked out and that they hadn't taken him to the hospital since they couldn't pay the bills. She'd said that if he'd been out another day she would have made their dad cough up the cash, but asking Terry Milkovich for anything as a dangerous game, he didn't blame her for not wanting to push it.   
The concussion had hurt, so had the stab wound in his side, but he was pretty sure none of those things compared to what he was feeling right about now. Physical pain was something he'd grown accustomed to, almost expected, but this? He'd never signed up for any of this, never wanted any of it. He'd never asked for some scrawny kid with a tire iron to kick open his door and walk into his life, fists flailing and swinging as he tried to get the upper hand on him. He'd always considered that day a win-- he'd gotten some hits in, and he'd gotten laid, but he never took the time to consider how everything had changed from that day on. He hadn't won anything, if anything, he lost everything about himself that he thought he'd known. He'd thought he was capable of pretending to be straight, he'd thought he would never care about anyone who wasn't family, but Ian fucking Gallagher turned all of those beliefs upside down. Much like he was turning his stomach upside down now. 

He wasn't a moron. He hadn't grown up in some white house with a picket fence and a couple of dogs running around. He was from the Southside, the ghetto, the place where dreams went to die, and he wasn't delusional enough to think that his life was going to pan out any differently. He was a realist, a fucking pessimist even, and he prepared for the worst. But somehow, being with Ian had made him fucking optimistic. He'd thought that maybe they could be something different than who they'd been, try to find some way to make it wok despite the fact that all signs, all outcomes, pointed to nothing good. Love fucks you up, and it spits you out, and it doesn't give a shit how much it hurts you in the process. You made the choice, you gave into it, you reap what you sow. 

He squared his shoulders and kept his head up, the gun tucked into his jeans feeling warm against his skin as his fingers itched to grab it. A part of him realized that it wouldn't be smart to pull a gun out in the middle of the backroom of a crowded club, not if he wanted to avoid juvie, but he wasn't sure how much he cared. Ian was in the middle of the room, lounging on the couch with his eyes closed, and some guy was all over him. He watched as someone else's lips trailed down his neck, finding that spot that Mickey had claimed for his own. Someone else's hands were all over Ian's body, touching, caressing, exploring, and it made him sick. It made him shake with fury, his fists clenched so hard at his sides that his nails dug into the skin and left little crescent marks in their wake. He didn't even give himself time to think as he pulled the guy off of him, his fist coming up to connect with his jaw as he knocked him to the floor. He saw red, could hear someone shouting but he didn't care as he tackled the guy when he got back up, hitting him again, and again, and again until someone pulled him off. It wasn't Ian, but Robbie, who was also supporting a barely conscious Ian. He'd clearly taken something, too much of something if Mickey had to guess, and he blinked to clear the blood from his vision as he was hauled out of the club. 

As soon as the cold night air hit his face he winced, starting to feel the split on his lip from one of the punches that the old man had managed to land. His fists had been flying, like a kitten struggling to survive before it drowned to death, and though the damage was minimal it was annoying. He'd had worse, but he couldn't get the sight of that fucking geriatric troll with his hands all over him. Sure, he worked at a club and it was par for the course, but Ian was clearly not fucking into it. He'd looked barely conscious, and it pissed him off more than anything that if he'd been five minutes earlier, or five minutes later, he could have walked in on something completely fucking different. 

He hadn't realized that his fists were still tensed up until he felt someone's hand pressing against them, and he looked up expecting to meet Ian's gaze but was met with Robbie's concerned gaze instead. He debated decking him but didn't, because the only thing keeping Ian upright was the fact that the other man was holding him up.

"Calm down."

"You want me to fucking calm down?" Mickey snapped, eyes blazing, as he kicked at a beer bottle that was on the ground outside. It shattered and the glass shattered everywhere, but he couldn't find it in him to care. Everything was breakable, the world wouldn't fall to pieces because of one broken bottle. "Who the fuck let him in tonight? He's not supposed to be__fuck." He kicked at the ground again, only looking up when he heard a second voice, one that always sent chills down his spine and made it feel like someone had grabbed his heart, wrapped their fingers around it, and started to squeeze.

"Calm down, Mick. S'not a big deal."

"Not a big fucking deal, eh?" He snapped without even trying, shaking his head as he spoke. "What's a big fucking deal to you, huh Gallagher? Ain't the fucking rules of this shit that you can look but you can't fucking touch? Jesus, this ain't a speakeasy."

"You always touched."

"Yeah, but I'm fuckin'--" He broke off, searching for the right words to express what he was trying to say as he looked at Robbie warily, and then back at Ian. He wasn't good at words, at expressing how he felt, never had been. Especially not in front of strangers. "It's fucking different and you know it, dipshit." He shook his head, his eyes softening a little from the heated glare as he licked his lip, tasting the blood coming from the cut. It was refreshing, felt more normal, and made him feel less like punching people and more like getting the fuck out of there. "Whatever. Let's just go, alright?"

He was lucky that Robbie had a car, because he'd run out of cash and hadn't had the sense to steal a car before heading over. Could've stolen one outside the club, but the other guy seemed horrified that he'd even consider it. It was fucking weird, a stripper with morals, but he wasn't questioning it. He helped get Ian in the back before sliding in beside him, not saying a word when Ian automatically laid his head in his lap, like it was too heavy to keep up anymore. He sighed, tongue pressed against his cheek, as his fingers instinctively came down to run through his hair. He could feel a set of eyes watching him, watching them, but he flipped him off and ignored him as they headed back across town. He'd known that this wasn't going to be easy, that smooth sailing was never going to be a reality in his life, but knowing and experiencing were too different things. But he was a Milkovich, he had skin as tough as nails, and it was going to take a hell of a lot more than that to pull him out of the game.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time they got to the Milkovich house, Ian was out cold. He wasn't sure if it was because of the booze and the drugs, exhaustion, or everything that had been going on with him, but he wasn't about to get up. He slid out of the car first, slinging Ian's arm around his shoulders as he picked him up. He shifted his weight so he could keep a grip on him, carrying him up the steps and into the apartment, kicking the door open with his foot. He barely looked up when he saw two hands snap up in his direction, ignoring Mandy's curious eyes as he took Ian into the bedroom. 

"Alright, Sleeping Beauty..." He sighed, putting Ian down on the bed, before pushing the blankets down and out of the way so that he could get him in. "You sleep, or whatever... I'll be back." He frowned, reaching down to run his fingers through his hair, before slowly backing out of the room and into the hallway. He just wanted a beer, or maybe a joint, and to try to get the image of Ian with some guy draped all over him out of his head. He wasn't getting away that easily though, because Mandy had trapped him up against the fridge when he went to grab one.  
"What's wrong with him?"

"What the fuck do you think?" He snapped, taking the bottle and using the edge of the counter to open the bottle. He drained half of it in one gulp, avoiding her gaze as he leaned up against it. He didn't want to talk about what was going on, or anything, and it was pissing him off that she seemed to think he was about to open up about every single fucking thought in his head. "It's nothing, he's fine. Just drank a little much."

"Bullshit." She spat back at him, eyes narrowing. "He's not fi--"

"No shit. Why'd you fucking ask if you knew the answer? Jesus." He finished off his beer and stashed the bottle under the sink, wincing when he heard the baby start to cry in the other room. Svetlana looked at him expectantly, like she expected him to go tend to him, and he shot her a look as he clenched his jaw. "Would you go get the fucking baby?" He added as an after thought. "Please." She looked like she was going to complain but she got up anyway, and he let himself out the front door to sit on the steps. He phished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, feeling as if his head was spinning as he lit it up. He didn't even hear someone come up to sit beside him until he heard the sound of another lighter flicking, lighting the tip of his cigarette. He grunted a thanks, taking a drag and then blowing the smoke out, looking to his left. He was surprised to see Robbie sitting there, not having expected him to stick around. "The fuck you doing here?"

"Wanted to make sure he got in okay...he's really nice, you know, for__well, you know. We work with a lot of shifty people, but he's always been really cool."

"Sounds like Firecrotch." Mickey rolled his eyes, though the disdain didn't seep into his voice like he'd thought it would. If there was anything Ian was good for, it was stepping up for people. How many times had Ian stepped up to the bat for him? For his sister? It was just who he was, who he'd always been. Hell, he'd probably give you the shirt off of his back if he thought you really needed it. "Fucking martyr."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Mickey shrugged, but to a certain degree he couldn't help but think it was. That would always be Ian's downfall, that he put every other person before himself. It pissed Mickey off sometimes, especially when it got Ian into shit, but at the same time it was something he liked about him. He wouldn't be the Ian he lo--cared about, if he didn't. 

"Sometimes it is."

"Sometimes anything can be a bad thing." Robbie looked up at that point, stealing the cigarette from him and taking a drag off of it before handing it back, looking like he wanted to say something for a few moments before he finally spoke up. "Take care of him, yeah? He's one of the good ones."

Mickey just nodded and finished off his cigarette before going back inside, not sure if he felt angry or not from the conversation that had just gone down. Of course Ian was one of the good ones, he fucking knew that better than anyone. If this piece of shit town had anything good in it, the good was Ian Gallagher. He pushed the door to the bedroom open and leaned up against the frame, keeping an eye on him as he watched his chest rise and fall. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he fell for him more and more every day. It was getting harder to ignore that and pretend like it wasn't happening. He was falling hard, and fast, and there was no way out of this free fall.


	8. Chapter 8

When Ian woke up the next morning, the first thing he was aware of was how heavy his body felt. Like his body was submerged underwater, and he was being held down by sand bags. He groaned and rolled over, eyes still screwed shut, as his fingers brushed against the empty sheets beside him. He hadn't realized that he'd been searching for Mickey until he realized that he wasn't there, and he frowned as he cracked an eye open. The bed was untouched, like no one but him had slept in it, and the unrumpled sheets bothered him more than they probably should. 

He pushed himself up out of bed, closing his eyes as the room started to spin, closing his eyes as he tried to remember what exactly had happened. He didn't really remember making the decision to leave the house, but he did remember getting to the club and__oh right, Mickey had stopped by. Shit. He cursed under his breath and reluctantly got out of bed, opening the door and pushing it open. Svetlana was sitting in the kitchen, bouncing the baby against her hip as she waited for the bottle to warm up. She shot him a look that sent shivers down his spine, full of loathing and contempt, and he swallowed thickly as he looked around. Mickey was nowhere to be seen, but there was another jacket on the couch. He frowned as he looked at it, picking it up and running his thumb over the material, before looking over at her and speaking up. "Is this Mick's?"

"No." Svetlana replied curtly, testing the bottle on her wrist, before feeding the baby. "Jacket belong to glitter boy. He help bring you home. In middle of night, when baby trying to sleep." She narrowed her eyes. "No sleep for baby, no sleep for mother. Douchebag husband no help."

Ian couldn't help but wince, mumbling an apology, as he eyed her warily. He didn't trust her not to come after him with a hammer again, so it was best to play it cool. He glared down at the jacket like it had personally offended him, not happy that Mickey was out with some other guy. Even if they had both been in charge of bringing him home, apparently. He sighed and shrugged his own jacket on, phishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pockets as he left the house and lit one up, the stick between his lips as he headed down the sidewalk. 

When he got to the Alibi he pushed the door open and let himself in, wincing at the noise as he shook his head. It all seemed too loud, too vibrant, and he wanted to turn around and go home. He was starting to regret getting out of bed, of making the decision to be upright and mobile, until he saw a familiar face coming down the stairs. Despite the fact that he hadn't gotten much sleep, Mickey still looked good. What was worrisome, however, was the cracked knuckles and the blood on his shirt.

"What the hell, Mick." He headed over to him and grabbed his hands, noticing with a slight smile that Mickey didn't even jerk his hands back when he'd grabbed them in public. They'd come a long way. "What the hell happened to your hand?"

Mickey just stared at him like he'd grown a second head, eyes narrowed as he shook his head. "You don't fucking remember?" 

Ian shook his head, confused, as he ran his fingers over the cracked and bruised knuckles. "No.. what was I supposed to be remembering?"

Mickey's hand came up to press against his cheek and Ian leaned into the touch, frowning when he felt a slight twinge of pain. He let Mickey tip his head to the side, towards the mirror, and his eyes widened when he saw the side of his face bruising. He hadn't even felt the pain until he was made aware of it, and he frowned in confusion as he tried to figure out what the hell happened. He didn't remember anything, didn't know what had happened, but judging by the look on Mickey's face... he wasn't going to like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger~
> 
> Sorry it has been so long for an update, writers block. But I have a general idea of where I want this story to go, it's just a matter of getting there now.


End file.
